Craven Gets Flashed XVIII

Outside the station house Sergeant Dowd climbed in behind the wheel of the paddy wagon.

“Try to have it back at a decent hour, sarge,” said officer Blair. “It’s Friday night in Yorkville and the bars are crawling with malcontents wanting the world know they’re alive. Throw in a little upchuck, mix in a little wee wee, and you got yourself one stinky paddy wagon by the dawns early light. Try to have it back by midnight.”

“You don’t have to tell me, Blair. I been on plenty of those wagon runs myself. I’ll be back in a jiffy. Just gonna pick up Dwayne and my carousel pony. I’ll even pick you out a nice big stogie to help cover up the stinkies. Night, Blair.”

“Night, sarge.”

When Sergeant Dowd pulled to the curb at the corner 38th street and Third Avenue there was no sign of Dwayne or the pony. But he did notice a curious, and familiar, sign taped to the lamppost.

I’d know that gorgeous anal cursive anywhere. Good ol' Freddie Moynahan. Sister Mary Margaret taught you well, my friend. Let’s see what it says.

Dear Dodgy Dowd,

On my travels tonight I spotted an E. J. Morris carousel pony circa 1901. I was so excited that my eyeballs just about bounced off the windshield. I also spotted this kid sitting in the saddle like it was one of those amusement rides outside a Woolworth’s store. He even let out few ‘Yee haws!’

He said his name was Dwayne. That the horse belonged to Sergeant Dowd of the 19th precinct, and that it was his sworn duty to see to it that no one but Sergeant Dowd was to claim the old pony.

I did my best, but no amount of bribing could make that kid give it up. So I did a package deal and took ‘em both. He’s hanging on to that pony like a jockey coming down the stretch at Belmont. And for some freakin’ reason he’s fiercly devoted to you, Dowd. He ain’t giving it up without your say so. So ya better come over and say so. See? And remember, you owe me for that raw deal ya pulled with that mummy. Tutankhamun’s mother was nowhere to be found in that thing ya sold me, my friend! I got nothing but a dead mouse in a painted casket made of chinzy balsa. If ya want Dwayne back, come get him. As usual, bring coffee and donuts from the Coffee Pot. We may be rivals in the antiquities racket, but we ain’t philistines. And, remember, no sticky buns. They get in the way of business. Also, Dwayne would like a slice of Banana cream pie. ’Please don’t forget the fork’, he says. Kid’s got manners. I like that. And, as long as you’re in the cutlery drawer, grab me a knife so’s I can cut my jelly donut into civilized triangles. As well, don’t forget the napkins. And, unless you want to stop at Angela’s Antique Linen shop on 22nd street, paper will have to suffice. See ya later, chum. I'm on my way back to the Village. You know where to find me.

Signed,

The guy who's taking no more wooden sarcophaguses from you. And please excuse my wordy kidnapping note, but you know how much I love writing cursive. It gives me chills when my quill is all inked up and ready for action. Later, my friend. 

***

Betty popped an olive in her mouth let out a sigh.

“Did you ever get the feeling that you’ve been forgotten, Mildred?”

“Forgotten by who, Betty?”

The waiter lowered his tray and placed a pitcher of martinis on the table.

“Craven.”

“Forget Craven for now. This is your time to shine. You should hook up with the waiter. He hasn’t forgotten us all night.”

“He is awful cute isn’t he? And stop making me laugh so hard when I'm eating olives. I have to sing in a bit.”

“Now you’re talking. You ready for this? ‘Cause the emcee's comin' your way with a microphone.”

“Ready as I’ll ever be. And I’m taking a martini with me.”

“That’s my girl! Knock 'em dead! But first spit out the rest of that olive.”

Photo courtesy of Wiki Commons:

https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?search=carousel+horse&title=Sp...(3509744280).jpg